


Morsels

by JQ (musicmillennia)



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: (Much), 3+1, Established Relationship, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, Food, Humor, Hurt Mick, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Relationship Reveal, Wedding Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 02:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5768446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/JQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, 3 times Mick fed Len and one time Len fed Mick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morsels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nordstrom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nordstrom/gifts).



> Sorry this took so long omg. I'm a slow writer.

****1\. On Ice** **

 Len doesn’t do hospitals. They’ve never helped him, criminal record or no. Pain killers though, well. They’re a different story.

Job’d gone bad. Central City kind of bad. It wasn’t Flash’s fault—at least, Len hopes that happy go-lucky kid didn’t unleash a raging telepathic _gorilla_ in his city on purpose. The Rogues were in the middle of a heist when the brute shattered the floor, nearly knocking Piper off his feet. Were it not for Mardon’s good timing with wind, he’d be lying next to Len.

Which brings them to this _moron_ blinking at his hands like he’s never seen them. Grodd, apparently the monkey’s name, targeted the muscle among the Rogues, which was obviously Mick. But Mick only felt a slice of terrible _paintortureneedlesfather_ before ice licked up Grodd’s side. Suddenly Mick was panting in Lisa’s arms and staring at Len as Cold fell to his knees with a tortured shout.

Grodd took control of Len instead, using him as a mouthpiece to have a chat with Flash. The Rogues could only watch, helpless, as their leader spoke in guttural, fragmented sentences, demanding to know where his—where Grodd’s—father was.

The moment he was released, Len swayed dangerously on his feet. Mick caught him as he fell.

So, like Mick said: _moron_.

Lisa better be filming this, because Mick is never going to let this go. Never.

Len slurs, “Th’se things work fast. Coooool.” Then he giggles—honestly _giggles_ , like a teenager getting to second base for the first time. “Cool! Geddit?”

“We get it Lenny-benny,” replies Lisa, as a mother would to her small child. Her face is almost purple from trying not to laugh.

Mick snorts quietly, because it _is_ funny. “You need to eat,” he says, pulling over a tray, “Shawna’s orders.”

Len’s head lolls to the side and…stares.

That’s it. Just stares. At first, Mick and Lisa are glancing at each other, worried that something’s wrong, until—“Hullo, gorge’s!”

Lisa smacks a hand over her mouth. Mick shoves the tray onto Len’s lap and orders, “Eat your pudding.”

“Who’re you? M’nurse?”

You’ve gotta be shitting him. Mick looks to Lisa for help.

Rule 1: don’t look to Lisa Snart for help. “No Lenny-benny,” she says, “that’s Mick Rory, your husband.”

Could’ve said partner, associate, even friend would’ve done. But no, she had to go and tell the stoned patient the _truth_.

Len’s mouth falls open. “Whaaaaat? No way.”

Mick growls, “Eat your damn pudding, Snart.”

But _no_ , Snart has to roll on his side and scramble to grab something of Mick’s. He lands half-on Mick’s lap, while his tray barely survives the movement in time.

“Are we really married?” Len asks. Mick huffs, straightening him up. “Wow, you’re so _strong_! We can’t be married.”

Mick pinches the bridge of his nose. He needs a matchbox. “Yes, we’re married, Snart, okay?”

Len repeats, “Whaaaat? No way! How-how long?”

Lisa answers because she’s a stone cold bitch, “About fourteen years.”

Len looks floored with this revelation. “But he’s like— _hot!_ ” Mick scrubs a hand down his face as Lisa start trembling. “Like, _really_ hot! Fuck, I landed the j—the ja—the jackpot!”

Lisa braces herself on the nearest wall. She’s crying at this point, wracked with silent laughter. Mick really needs a matchbox.

He settles for grabbing the plastic spoon, tearing open the plastic covering, and shoving both into Len’s hands. “ _Eat_.”

Len chooses not to roll, but to fall over instead. Mick snarls in annoyance, catching him and glaring as Len stares up at him with hearts in his eyes.

“F’r you, baby, I’d eat _all_ the pudding,” he says very seriously. “But I c’n’t really feel m’hands.”

Lisa finally bursts into loud, shrieking cackles when Mick is forced to spoon feed Captain Cold.

No. Len is never, _ever_ going to live this down.

 

****2\. Warming Up** **

 Leonard (Rory) Snart has a problem. Really he has many problems, all of which Mick likes to point out, but this one is his biggest aside from his incessant talk.

He focuses on his work. Mick’s not talking about how normal people focus—apparently Len’d sooner drop dead than do something by halves. No, this kind of focus is on a whole new level, to the point where one of their jobs ended in Len almost keeling over from starvation and exhaustion.

So Mick came up with a plan. True, he’s usually not the brains of this operation, but he got by well enough on his own before he met Len; not all of his plans are terrible. Besides, this one actually works.

He calls it the Pavlov Project. The trick is having the element of stealth. Which, given Len’s tolerance for Mick’s lack of awareness for personal space, is much easier than you think.

Step 1: Mick approaches Len’s worktable, not stopping until they’re shoulder to shoulder. By now, Len doesn’t even look up, just continues making notes on various blueprints and what-the-fuck-ever. A bag of chips are in his hand, already open so it doesn’t make too much noise when Mick starts eating.

Step 2: for every bite, Mick offers Len the bag. He’s rewarded with a distracted hum, a barely-there glance, and Len taking a chip. Mick does this about ten times, give or take the intensity of Len’s concentration and how much time has passed since he’s eaten.

Step 3: allow Len to do the work for a while. Eventually, Mick stops asking if he wants a chip, or a peanut, or whatever he’s carrying. Once Mick takes one, Len automatically takes one, eating without thinking about it.

Step 4: step away. Mick makes his exit, taking his bag with him. At the door, he takes a final loud _crunch_ ing bite. Len’s hand raises, clasping air. Mick smirks and leaves him like that, blinking in confusion at his fingers and suddenly realizing how hungry he is.

Step 5: go to the kitchen and wait for Len to arrive. If he doesn’t, go back to Step 1.

Either way, the Pavlov Project works like a charm, and Mick’s always got Len pressed to his side devouring a sandwich by the end.

Mick Rory may not know many things, but he knows Len.

 

****3\. Ready, Aim, Fire** **

 The Rogues don’t have many traditions, least of all their leader and his partner. But if Len and Mick had to name one, they’d go with the standing tournament on March 14th.

Here’s now it started: on March 14th, 2001, two criminals snuck into the registrar in the middle of the night and made themselves a marriage certificate. One of the criminal’s sister signed as a witness, and a lawyer signed it at gunpoint.

After celebrating their wedding night with christening their hovel and plenty of booze, Mick and Len started to have fun. Nothing criminal or sexual, just good old-fashioned _fun_ —the kind Len never got to have as a kid.

Part of that fun leads to tonight, March 14th, with both men settled on either side of their couch, bags of M&M’s in their hands. A coin’s been tossed; as usual, Len gets to catch first.

Mick shoots a hard left. Quick as the Flash, Len darts to the side and catches the M&M in his mouth with an irritating smirk.

“That all you got?” he taunts, trying to goad his opponent into carelessness. It’s a strategy Mick’s intimately familiar with, and one that is _not_ gonna work this time.

“You wish,” he replies, and launches again, this time overshooting. Len pushes himself up, nearly hanging onto the couch just by his legs, and—still catches it. Ass.

“What’s the matter, Mick?” Len asks, smug, “Can’t keep your cool?”

Every year, this tournament ends with M&M’s scattered all over the floor—and people ask why they don’t have any rugs—as both participants try to shove them into the other’s face. But it’s also one of the rare moments when Len throws back his head and laughs until he’s red in the face.

Mick counts that as a win.

 

**+1. Cool Down**

It’s bad. No, it’s worse. At this point, Len’s not even sure he’s got a word for how Mick looks right now.

What’s maddening is it’s only by the grace of tracking Mick’s gun that Len even knows where Flash took him after the fight. If Mick didn’t have that thing, Len would’ve been forced to search every hospital in Central, and by then Mick might’ve been—

_Fuck._

Len shoves open the doors to St. Simon and Jude’s on 5th and Clarke. Cops immediately try to arrest him—he doesn’t even think before taking them all on. They drop like flies.

Detective West’s gun is at the ready. Len tosses his gun on the nearest chair and knocks the pistol from the man’s hands, shoving him against the wall.

“Where is he?” Cold hisses, sending shivers down Joe’s spine, “Where’s Mick?”

“Snart!”

Flash. Len abandons West, storming towards that ridiculous red suit.

“They put him in surgery?” it’s not a question.

Barry seems surprised at Len’s ferocity. “Yeah, yeah they did,” he says, “uh. Doctor says they got him just in time.”

Just in time.

Len’s whole world zeroes around those three words. _Just in time._

Meaning, if Flash hadn’t been there, Mick would be—right now, he would be dead.

No more lighters littering the Rogues’ base. No more wild laughter on jobs. No more partnership. No more March 14ths.

Len swallows bile. _Pull yourself together_ , he thinks, _that’s not gonna happen._

Just in time. Oh, _fuck_.

When Len speaks again, his entire demeanor reverts back to Cold. “Did they say how long it would take?”

Flash looks for all the world like he wishes he could say something that’d make Len feel better. _Heroes_ , honestly. “They didn’t know. Once they stabilized him, they just…said they’d do their best.”

Len squares his shoulders. “I suppose I’ll just go sit down, then?”

Flash’s eyes widen. “W-what?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Cold pulls up a chair. “Family’s allowed into ICU after surgery. Or are you going to deny a grieving spouse his rights?”

Silence engulfs the waiting room. Len smirks, knowing he’s dropped every mouth within earshot. He’s pale and clearly tense, but it’s the little things that can make us feel better.

Flash stutters unintelligibly for three seconds before shrieking, “ _Spouse_?!” like a baby mouse.

Len hums, clasping his arms over his stomach. “Fifteen years come March, if memory serves.” Smirk widening, “Ice got your tongue, Flash?”

At least he can entertain himself until Mick’s rolled out.

 

 

Mick always wakes from meds like he’s on fire. Thrashes, claws, yells, everything’s included. Because Len pulled conjugal rights, he’s lawfully allowed to be there for damage control.

“Don’t strap him down!” he snaps at the idiot medical staff. Mick, he slaps hard across the face and yells, “ _Mick_! You’re not there! Look!” snatches his scarred hand, “Your evolution’s done. You’re here, with me.”

Mick gasps for breath, eyes rolling around in his head like a wild beast. Len never raises his voice, but right now he’s loud enough to wake the entire ward: “Look at me— _look at me_ , _Mick_!”

Finally, _finally_ , Mick’s gaze lands on Len and focuses. His breathing slows; Len breathes with him.

“How bad?” he rasps.

Len reaches into his parka as he replies, “Worse than you sound.”

Mick snorts. “Say that to all the guys?”

A crinkle of a bag. “Yes. Relax, Detective,” Cold says to the mounted gun, “it’s just a snack.”

Flash’s mouth works open and closed. “Are those…Little Bites?”

Mick raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Big brother,” he says, like that explains it.

With clinical, practiced movements, Len tears open the bag and breaks the first brownie in half. He offers it to Mick.

“I’m not a child, Snart,” growls Mick.

“No, you’re a pyromaniac who lost his cool in the middle of a job and nearly got himself torn to pieces,” Len growls right back, “Do you want it or not?”

He sees the second Mick realizes just how bad a shape he’s in, and how his condition’s left Len. Feeding him Little Bites in front of a group of cops and their arch-nemesis.

Mick takes the brownie half. Len answers the unspoken question: “You’re wearing more stitches than skin and if I’m not mistaken, you should be feeling those broken ribs and metal plate in your arm when the pain killers wear off.”

Mick takes the next half. “Saved your ass, though.”

Len hates him. Hates him so much.

“No you don’t, Snart.”

Flash gives them a confused puppy look. “Don’t what…?”

Len talks over him, tossing his trademark smirk over his shoulder. “It’s been fun, Flash. I owe you one.”

Flash stiffens. “What—”

“Hey sis?”

Lisa hears him through the comm system in his coat. An explosion erupts in the waiting room, courtesy of the dummy cold gun Len placed.

Cold raises a finger. “Better go save those citizens, Flash!”

Flash spares him a (disappointed) glare. They both know Len and Mick’ll be long gone by the time he gets back, regardless of Detective West and his officers. He speeds off anyway.

Len whips the real cold gun from the holster hidden under his parka. A bullet grazes his shoulder on the way out, but it’s a small price to hear Mick’s lively cackle as they pile into the car Lisa’s got waiting for them.

She hisses when she sees Mick. “Least they didn’t get your pretty face.” _I’m so glad you’re okay._

Mick grunts. _Thanks._

Pain killers are wearing off; Len can tell by Mick’s sagging against his shoulder. He feeds him whole brownies as recompense.

“Why did I take you on this job?” he mutters, too soft for even Lisa to hear.

Mick opens his mouth for another brownie and mumbles, “’Cause I said yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you for reading and LET THIS SHIP RISE.
> 
> I hope you liked it, dear! :D


End file.
